


blood has dried out

by wednesday



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Magic, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: There’s nothing unusual about the werewolf contract. It's what happens after it - the feeling of being watched that persists outside the town and doesn't diminish for days. That’s when Geralt knows something is wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Yellow Team





	blood has dried out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [araydre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/araydre/gifts).



It’s early spring when Geralt takes the werewolf contract. Barely warm enough to melt the snow keeping him up in the mountains. His impatience to get back on the Path is streaked with the strange melancholy he feels every time he leaves Kaer Morhen. Maybe this time will be the last. It never is, but they all feel it, year after year, the knowledge any one of them might not come back next winter, and it just as well might be him. So it goes every spring. 

But the werewolf contract. 

There’s nothing unusual about it. It takes Geralt longer than he’d like to find evidence of the beast’s identity, but not so long that a full moon falls in the meantime. The town isn’t the kind to send him away with a rain of stones, even if he’s far enough north that the whispers of Blaviken and the Butcher follow him wherever he goes. He pays them no mind. No one spits in his ale, whether from some never-before-seen surge of politeness, or from a healthy amount of fear. 

The local mage buys as many drowner parts as Geralt can deliver. He cleans several nests out while tracking the werewolf and doesn’t much mind the lack of a contract with the mage paying more than fairly for the lot of them. 

He finds the werewolf eventually. No one else gets mauled to death. Geralt gets nothing more than a few scrapes and scuffmarks on his armor. 

It goes as well as contracts ever go for him. He gets paid, too. Doesn’t even have to haggle; gets the full price as promised. 

Then he brings the last of the drowner corpses to the mage. There’s a bloodstained cart outside, reeking of human blood and guts. The stench only gets worse when he walks inside the house, follows the trail of blood to a room where something that was probably once a human is laid out on the table. The mage is there, looking at the table with far more revulsion than he showed the dismembered drowner corpses. 

“Witcher,” he notices Geralt and visibly relaxes. “Finally. You must do something about this!” He gestures at the table in a helpless manner. 

“Hmm.” 

Geralt puts his bag of drowner parts on the floor by the door and steps closer to examine the body. It looks fresh, dead less than a day. Torn apart so badly that Geralt wouldn’t recognize it but for what’s left of the clothes. The mage’s apprentice. 

“Claw marks. Small,” Geralt mutters while walking around the table, “no teeth. Not the werewolf.” 

“He was found in the fields, barely outside the town. Went out to pick some han fiber for whatever nonsense he was trying to brew and...” The mage gestures vaguely at what’s left of the man. 

“Anyone see what did it?” Noonwraith maybe? But the damage is… noonwraiths don’t kill this way. Geralt can’t think of anything that does. 

“How would I know?” The man sounds far more upset than Geralt likes dealing with. Thankfully the mage pauses for a deep breath and continues with more calm. “Apologies, Witcher. I haven’t heard, nor do I mean to question every peasant that might have been up early enough, but I will pay you handsomely to do it for me. Find and kill whatever killed him.” 

“Hmm.” 

So Geralt has another contract. No one’s seen anything useful, which isn’t unusual. The place the apprentice was killed at is easy to find on account of all the blood. There’s no tracks there apart from those of the men who found the corpse, which is more unusual. No burnt ground, no prints or fur or any unusual scent. No signs of a wraith. Geralt asks around for any stories of dead maidens or spurned brides and finds nothing of note. None that could possibly have a reason to haunt these fields. 

And wraiths don’t kill this way. 

Fuck. 

Geralt inspects the body again to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. Even with more of the insides being outside, nothing seems to be missing. But there… hmm. Under the claw marks some of the wounds look like they might have been made by a blade. Fuck. Wraiths definitely don’t kill this way, not unless something’s gone really fucking wrong here. 

There’s no other lead, though. Usually there are a dozen suspicious deaths and disappearances that could be either the handiwork of the monster or the origin of the monster, but here he can find nothing. 

Geralt spends two days and nights meditating in the fields. A couple of brave sparrows come close to pecking a hole in his shirt before Geralt shoos them away. Nothing else happens. Not even a sign of any monsters. No wraith could endure so long without attacking him in a mindless rage, if one were hanging around. 

There is a feeling there, like he’s being watched by something. It’s vague, though, and whatever it is, does not appear. The feeling persists when Geralt leaves the field, so it must be something else. 

Then after a full week of lingering and futile attempts to find what killed the mage’s apprentice, Geralt gives up. He’s frustrated both by the complete lack of leads and by having stayed in the same place far too long. With a thought of coming back before winter to check if there have been more deaths, Geralt leaves. 

The feeling of being watched persists outside the town. It doesn’t stop or diminish for days. That’s when Geralt knows something is wrong. 

‘ _...couldn’t have stayed another day?_ ’ 

Geralt wakes with a start from a dream he can’t remember. The words slide off him and drain into the ground like water. Something about the voice rapidly fading in the pale light of dawn is familiar, but. Geralt forgets. 

The longer that alertness, that feeling of some intangible danger lasts, the more Geralt feels like he’s the one being haunted. But nothing happens. Geralt barely sleeps. Almost misses a wolf pack that tries to surround Roach and him, since the feeling of danger is increasingly present and damn distracting. And nothing fucking happens. 

Geralt’s really pissed off by the time he gets to a town with enough monster trouble to distract him from whatever the fuck is going on. 

Two griffins and a pack of ghouls later Geralt walks into a mage’s tower with a bag of griffin feathers and – stops. 

The floor looks more blood than wood. The smell of it hits him harder than a rock troll. It’s fresh. 

The mage is on the floor, middle of the room, face frozen in fear, glassy eyes empty. Very dead. Geralt steps around the slowly spreading puddle of red carefully. There are claw marks on the body. No tracks. Nothing tangible could have done this and then left without leaving a trail of blood. The smell of it, at least. 

There is nothing. No one has left this room since the mage’s death and no one is here. 

Geralt leaves, careful to leave no tracks either, not eager to be blamed for the murder. 

He rides all afternoon and well into the evening before making camp. Then, sitting by the fire he makes a shallow cut on his arm with a silver blade to make sure he hasn’t by some fucking impossible twist of magic managed to transfer the curse from that werewolf to himself. And not fucking _notice_ , while he was at it. 

His skin doesn’t burn, the silver does no more damage than any regular blade. It’s not even a full moon, and the mage was killed in the middle of the day. 

Fuck. Geralt runs his hand over his face, tries to brush away the restless unease. 

He’s not carrying any corpses around. Unless his potion ingredients have decided to come back to haunt the living, there is no damn way Geralt can be haunted. Even if he were, why the hell would some mage he’s never met be torn apart and not Geralt. Two mages. Maybe it _is_ the potion ingredients. 

Geralt casts Yrden around himself and settles down to meditate, knowing he won’t be able to fall asleep that night. The hair at the back of his neck feels permanently raised by now. 

Nothing attacks him. 

‘– _Geralt!_ ’ Almost a week later he’s awakened from sleep by a shout that echoes around him when he opens his eyes. For a moment he tries to follow the echoes, to keep them close and untangle all the ways they sound like they belong. Like he knows them and knows he can’t let go or he’ll lose something he can’t– 

There’s a sound, someone stepping on a branch, Roach shaking her head unhappily. Geralt wakes up more and reaches for his sword. 

Several men burst into the clearing, the embers of last night’s fire enough for Geralt to see, but he casts a quick Igni to blind his attackers. It gives him enough of a distraction to roll away from his blankets, get up and cut down one of them, push another into what’s left of the fire. The rest of them recover fast and attack him. Good swords, acceptable stances. Know how to fight in a group without getting in each other’s way. Mercenaries and not bad ones. 

Geralt is better. 

He cuts down a man too slow to to draw back after a parry, swings low and then high, brings down two more, flicks away an arrow, turns to the last of the swordsmen–– 

Someone is there, Geralt’s silver sword in hand, pulling it out of the chest of a mercenary. She, it, _she_ turns around and – Geralt knows her. He knows her and for a moment he’s frozen in disbelief. 

She turns around, hair like a soft cloud around her head still, the same eyes, and a smile he _knows_. 

“Would you look at that,” Renfri says. Smiles wider, sharper, a glint in her eyes as she watches the sword in her hand with joyful wonder. Then her eyes snap up and she throws the sword. Geralt doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away from her. A choked off sound and a thud behind him lets him know where the sword’s gone. 

Renfri looks at him. Geralt can see the trees behind her, through her. They get clearer until she fades away and Geralt is left alone with half a dozen dead men and the memory of her smile. And that persistent feeling of being watched. 

A ghost. Too much of her human self left to be a wraith. Renfri. 

It’s not hard to figure out what earthly possession she’s attached herself to. Unless it’s Geralt himself that’s being haunted, in which case he’s fucked. Anyway, he’s reasonably sure he’s right when he unhooks the brooch from the guard of his sword and the watchful presence gets heavier. She hasn’t done him any harm, not yet, but he knows then that if he tries to destroy that brooch, she will fight him. Can feel the menacing air all around him. 

He holds the brooch and sits before the fire for the rest of the night. Considers if throwing it into the fire would be enough. Probably not. It should be enough to make her take a shape that he could fight. Then melt the brooch at the nearest forge. Throw it in the sea and hope no unlucky sailor or fisherman ever fishes it out. Geralt would have to fight her first though. Again. She’s a ghost, some kind of shade. On her way to becoming a wraith maybe. He shouldn’t be having any doubts about this. 

Fuck, _Renfri_. It’s been fucking _years_ , why now? 

He repeats the question out loud to the empty woods around him. _Why fucking now?_ She stays hidden and silent, but he knows she’s still around. 

Geralt sits by the fire until dawn and then gets up, puts the brooch back on his sword and packs up his blankets as he does every morning. Then searches the bodies. 

The dead mercenaries hold no clue to why they’ve chosen to attack Geralt in the middle of the night. Definitely not by accident, though. They must have tracked him for days at least, as it’s been at least that long since he’s been near a town. 

He’s being haunted and hunted both. 

The next time Geralt sees her he’s fighting a pack of wolves driven rabid by the necrophages breeding somewhere in their territory. Geralt’s just dealt with the ghouls, but the beasts are too mad to care and ready to attack anything that moves. He’s not in much danger, not against creatures too mindlessly enraged to make any coordinated attempt. 

Then his medallion vibrates. He turns around, and there Renfri is, swiping her hand at a wolf, tearing its throat out. With claws. Geralt almost misses a wolf jumping for his throat as he stares. Then Renfri looks at him with her eyebrow raised as if mocking his lack of focus, so he gathers his damn focus and deals with the rest of the wolves. 

He expects her to be gone by the time the fight is over. She isn’t. 

“Getting blood out of this is impossible,” she says with a dissatisfied tone. Her face however looks more bored than anything. Geralt looks at her hands where she’s staring at fresh blood stains on her shirt. They both watch the blood dissolve to nothing. She stays, still pale and faintly see-through. Like a ghost. 

“Why are you here?” Geralt asks and hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate and hoarse as he feels. 

For a long minute Renfri ignores him and looks entirely occupied with cleaning blood out from underneath her fingernails. No longer claws, he notices. Geralt sighs and cleans the blood off his sword. Gets a knife and starts piling up the ghoul heads. Then what wolf parts he thinks he will be able to use or sell before they go bad. All the while he watches Renfri from the corner of his eye. 

After several minutes of silence she finally looks at him and with an easy shrug says, “Why not?” Geralt can’t think of any simple answer to that, and before he gets to the difficult ones, she fades away. 

Geralt can feel her all the time. He doesn’t know how much she pays attention to him and how much of what happens she can understand. His medallion doesn’t react to her presence unless she chooses to take visible form. 

He tries talking to her sometimes, when he’s alone. She doesn’t answer. She might only be around for the chance of a few more good fights, even if she’s seemed more lucid and far less bloodthirsty than any wraith. 

Only once he tries to say he’s sorry. He almost chokes on the words, sticking like dry ash to his throat. It feels like a lie when he can’t swear he would do anything differently, given another chance at that day. 

With time he gets used to sleeping while her presence surrounds him. He gets used to sleeping soundly in the middle of the woods, too, where before he would only meditate to stay alert to danger. Renfri wakes him up when anything comes too close, whether to protect him or for a chance at some bloodshed. 

Geralt gets used to her. The guilt and regret might drive haunted men mad in all such tales he’s heard, but Geralt is used to carrying more guilt and regret than a hundred men. The memory of her death is just one small part of a life on the Path. He deals with it. Another ghost doesn’t weight him down much, even if it’s a more literal ghost than the others. 

His peace with her haunting only lasts a few weeks. Another mage gets torn to pieces while Geralt hunts a pack of nekkers. He’s tired, soaked in the rain and has bits of debris from the explosion that took out the nest stuck in his hair. He’s not even a little amused to trip and fall over a dead mage. The mage that Geralt was about to ask for his pay for disposing of the nekkers. 

Geralt swears, gets Roach and rides away. The rain should wash away his tracks. Fuck. 

He stops when Roach starts showing very clear wariness at the mud flooding the road. He has to, unless he’s keen on getting thrown or worse, Roach slipping and falling. 

The rain is still pouring when he walks deep enough into the trees to not be seen from the road if anyone were to be desperate enough to ride past in this weather and curious enough to look around too. 

“Renfri!” Geralt shouts into the rain and can barely hear himself over the wind and endless water. As always, she ignores him, but this time Geralt keeps calling, shouts until he’s hoarse. Until he feels like he’s drowning in the downpour. 

“Geralt,” she says, so quiet he shouldn’t be able to hear her over the noise. Yet her voice echoes strangely in his head. She appears, perched on the highest point of a fallen tree. 

“What the fuck was that? That was you, wasn’t it? Today and last month and after the werewolf contract.” 

Renfri shrugs. Tilts her head in assent. The water in Geralt’s eyes keeps blurring his sight so much that he can’t tell if she doesn’t care, or if it’s the forced kind of disinterest. He sees red either way. 

“You tore them to pieces!” He knows she’s done the same and worse still when she was alive. Now though. Now it feels like his responsibility. He’s the one carrying her with him. The one bringing her to the door of some unsuspecting victim. 

She looks straight at Geralt, finally, and her stare glints red. “They tore _me_ to little pieces.” Her teeth glint red as well where she’s baring them in a poor attempt at a smile. Her claws cut into the tree she’s sitting on. There are shadows gathering around her that weren’t there any other time she showed herself. 

Geralt looks at her. He’s breathing too harshly, and she’s not breathing at all. 

“It wasn’t Stregobor.” The rage in her face doesn’t diminish. “Renfri, listen to me. It wasn’t Stregobor. It was just a mage. You never met him– _before_. You can’t. Just. Don’t. Don’t do this.” 

Renfri looks away and the shadows around her recede, but it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. Moments later she fades away. Geralt sits down on the rain-soaked moss and puts his head in his hands. 

“Fuck.” 

After that Geralt starts avoiding towns with mages. When he doesn’t know the place well enough to know if there are any, it’s the first thing he asks. And then turns around and leaves, if any mages are known to live nearby. He has no way of knowing how far her reach is, if she murders anyone, or if his efforts to deny her the chance are working. 

He still makes no effort to destroy the brooch. 

Renfri still wakes him up when beasts venture too close to him at night. 

In Posada he acquires a bard that refuses to leave him alone, and gets knocked out and captured. By _elves_. He’s really fucking annoyed at getting beaten up because he’s too human. By elves, that depending on the day might even be better loved by humans than he is. Never by much, and definitely not in Posada, it seems. And the bard has to go and make it worse. All that’s missing is… 

Fuck. 

He looks around with some alarm and only relaxes when he sees his swords in the far corner of the cave. The brooch is still on the guard. Geralt really doesn’t want to find out what will happen when someone who isn’t him tries to take it. 

In the end he doesn’t have to. They get away relatively unscathed, Geralt’s swords untouched. None of the elves murdered by a vengeful ghost. 

He still can’t get the bard to leave him alone, though. 

It takes him more time to get used to a human following him than it did to get used to a ghost. Renfri doesn’t fucking talk all the damn time, though, so he’s not seeing anything wrong with that. 

A couple of times he says something meant for her by habit while sitting by his fire in the woods and only catches himself when Jaskier looks at him strangely. It has the added downside of making Jaskier think Geralt, however oddly, is attempting conversation with _him_. 

The one very obvious problem traveling with a human presents is Geralt's quest to avoid mages. The second time Geralt turns around after getting confirmation that there is indeed a mage living close by, Jaskier stands in Geralt’s way with no regard for his own life and tries to stop him. 

“No. Geralt, please, have mercy. I can’t, nay, I _refuse_ to sleep on the ground even a single night longer. Whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself in with this mage, I’m sure I could help! I’m very likable! I bet if I just talked to him, I could–” 

Geralt stops listening at that point and tries to come up with some excuse. He should really tell the bard there’s nothing stopping him from staying in the village without Geralt. 

“–okay? Okay! So let’s go, there are warm beds and good ale waiting for us!” 

Geralt takes a deep breath and – Renfri appears just behind Jaskier. For a moment she stares at Geralt with an unreadable expression. Then she rolls her eyes at him and fades away. 

“...Okay,” Geralt says. Really hopes he’s not making a mistake. 

When the local mage is to the best of their knowledge in good health a few days later, Geralt buys a sword on his way out of town. 

“So, I can’t help but notice the,” Jaskier waves at where Geralt is fastening the new sword to Roach’s saddlebag, “ _sword_.” 

“Hmm.” 

“It’s a nice gesture, don’t get me wrong, but if you expect me to learn to use a sword...” The expression on Jaskier’s face is about the same as if he were contemplating how to politely decline an offer of helping Geralt pickle drowner brains. 

“It’s not for you,” Geralt says, just to stop Jaskier from injuring himself with how hard he’s trying to find a way to refuse without causing offense. 

“It’s– Wait, it’s not? Why not?” 

Geralt finishes securing the sword – tight enough that it won’t come loose and be lost, but placed so that, for example, a ghost in need of a weapon other than claws could easily get hold of it – and starts walking. 

“Geralt? You already have two swords, why do you need another one? Are there monsters that are far more susceptible to… slightly shorter swords? Is sword length really that important?” 

Geralt laughs and doesn’t explain. 

A month in Renfri appears on the other side of the fire, next to Jaskier, who’s thankfully dead to the world and faintly snoring. 

“You made a friend,” she says, only a little mocking. 

“Another one.” 

Renfri’s smile softens somewhat, and then turns sharp again, but she doesn’t deny it. They don’t talk. She stays for a long while. Until Geralt falls asleep, at least. 

Things are working out surprisingly well. 

Then again, a week later Geralt has to bark, “Do _not_ ,” when he sees a seething Renfri appear and reach for her sword while Jaskier keeps singing. The same. Fucking. Song. That he’s already been singing half the day. 

“What? Geralt?” Jaskier looks at him startled. “Oh, you don’t like this one? You should have said, I’ve been at it _for hours_!” 

Renfri is standing a few steps behind him, glaring at the back of Jaskier’s head with her teeth bared. She huffs, looks at Geralt and fades away without stabbing anyone. 

“ _I know._ ” 

“Well, don’t go all growly, I’ll play something else,” Jaskier says and turns his attention back to his lute. 

Things are working out… acceptably. 

He finds out what the hell those mercenaries were after when he gets ambushed by another, larger group of mercenaries led by a couple of mages. Jaskier and Geralt get stuck in some kind of magic trap. Jaskier, who once cheerfully backtalked elves while tied up and being beaten with his own lute, looks unnaturally pale. 

“You’ve done enough damage, Witcher. We shan’t allow a mage killer like you to walk away again.” 

_Of–fucking–course_. Geralt sighs. He has his swords with him, at least. Roach, the smart girl, kicked one of the mercenaries in the chest and ran away when they were ambushed. That’s why now Geralt unsheathes both his swords. 

“Want to maybe help out?” he asks, not looking away from the mage. 

“Help? Geralt, you know I can’t fight, I am not a fighter!” Jaskier whispers back frantically. 

“Not you.” 

Even the mage looks slightly confused. Geralt sighs. “This _is_ your fucking fault.” 

Geralt’s medallion vibrates and the air next to him shimmers for a moment and then Renfri appears at his side and takes one of Geralt’s swords. Everyone but her stands frozen in surprise. 

“Magic. I really hate magic,” she says with feeling, and steps outside the trap easily, as if it’s not there at all. And then thrusts the sword through the mage’s heart. The trap dissolves and Geralt steps forward as well. 

Ten minutes later Geralt is cleaning his swords and Jaskier is very pointedly not looking at the dead bodies. Keeps Geralt between himself and the carnage, as if it’s the dead that might threaten him and not Geralt. 

“So, uh, I don’t mean to be...” Jaskier starts with an air of barely restrained curiosity, but apparently even a bard doesn’t know what to say about this mess. 

“Jaskier, Renfri. Renfri, Jaskier,” Geralt says. Tilts his head towards where Renfri is still visible if faintly see-through, leaning against a tree. Staring at the bodies in turns with disdain and far too much glee. There are shadows around her again, making her look sharper. 

“Renfri! Of course, pleased to– No you know what, I think I need more information. Are you, um, an...” 

“A ghost,” Geralt says. 

“Princess of Creyden,” Renfri says, finally done with staring at the dead men and apparently in a mood to pay some attention to the living. 

“So you remember that.” Geralt hadn’t been sure. 

“I remember everything,” she says with another of her faint shrugs. That Geralt very much doubts. Maybe she does, but maybe whatever she remembers is only enough to know she hates magic and doesn’t quite hate Geralt enough to want him dead. He can never tell how much of the real Renfri remains in her. He knows the ghost better than he ever got to know the real one anyway. 

For the first time Jaskier looks vaguely like he might be reconsidering his choice of traveling companions. He follows Geralt, though, and when they’ve put enough distance between them and the failed ambush, he even stops looking ill. 

“So,” Jaskier says when they’ve made camp for the night. Geralt sighs. He knows what this is going to be about. “The ghost, she, um. How did you know she would be there?” He leans forward, as if expecting some great secret from Geralt. Some magical Witcher sense that lets Geralt find ghosts. 

“She’s always here,” Geralt says. Whether she cares enough to pay attention to the world of the living or not at any given time, Geralt hasn’t stopped feeling her presence since spring. 

“Always–” Jaskier pales and lowers his voice to a whisper, “Geralt, are you saying she’s here right now?” 

“Yes,” Renfri answers for him. She appears next to Roach and runs her ghostly fingers through her mane. She never touches Geralt, and he’s not sure he wants to know what touching her would be like now. Interestingly enough, Roach has never been bothered by her presence and sudden appearances. 

Jaskier startles impressively but somehow manages to stop himself from making any sounds. He stares at her for a while, mouth moving without any words. Then turns back to Geralt. “How...” 

Geralt considers all the things he could say. How he could explain it. Not well, definitely. In the end he just says, “I killed her.” That much is true, and Geralt knows Renfri remembers that at least. After all, she is haunting him. 

Jaskier stares at Geralt then looks at Renfri, who is less than helpful. With a sharp smile she only adds, “In Blaviken.” 

“I think I’m going to need a little more explanation,” Jaskier says after a pause. He sounds strangely subdued, but that doesn’t last long. “Wait, you’re always here? And you can,” Jaskier makes some gesture that might be a stabbing motion, “Well, why didn’t you help us with the elves?!” 

“You were doing fine on your own.” Her expression makes Geralt think it might be more that she was amused by how badly they were doing on their own. 

“Geralt almost got killed!” That’s unexpectedly perceptive of Jaskier. Geralt had believed him genuinely unaware how serious Geralt had been when he’d bared his own neck to Filivandrel’s blade. Willfully choosing to ignore it, maybe. 

“We could both be ghosts then,” Renfri says and looks at Geralt with a playful smile. Geralt feels the corners of his mouth turn up in something like a smile as well. 

Jaskier watches them both with an expression of unease yet far too curious for his own good. When Renfri fades away and they get ready to sleep, Jaskier tries to subtly move his blankets a little closer to Geralt than usual. Like he expects Geralt to protect him from whatever danger he’s imagining might befall them. 

– 

Years later he walks into his room in the tavern and finds Renfri already there, sitting on his bed. 

“Go to Cintra with him.” 

Geralt shakes his head and turns around, ready to escape. He’s already had this conversation with Jaskier. Besides every other reason Geralt would normally have to not go to a damn royal engagement party, there’s also Renfri. Geralt has made a lot of effort to stay away from cities. From places where there are bound to be enough mages that he himself would start itching for a blade in his hand, never mind the angry magic-hating ghost he leads around with him. 

“Do you remember what I told you about your destiny?” 

Geralt stops in the doorway. Doesn’t turn around. Renfri never talks about the before, not unless it’s about the violence. Her death. 

“If you don’t go to Cintra, in a hundred years our world will be no more.” 

Fuck. Fucking _what_. 

“You only mentioned a girl,” he says faintly. “Nothing about...” The world ending. There’s no such thing as destiny. Whatever Renfri is now, she can’t know the future any more than she did when they first met. This is all fucking madness. 

“Go to Cintra, Geralt.” 

Fuck destiny and fuck Renfri’s end of the world. Geralt shakes his head again and leaves the room. Jaskier at least only threatened him with weak wine and a bunch of bored nobles. 

He goes to Cintra. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Gammarad for betaing!


End file.
